


My Mortal

by Picky_Princess



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 23:29:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1323277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Picky_Princess/pseuds/Picky_Princess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A slave girl discovers that she has captured the attentions of a prince of Asgard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Mortal

**Author's Note:**

> Submitted for the Loki's Dirty Whispers Winter 2014 Fanfiction Contest  
> Any sentences in bold are not my writing but Whispers from the site (we have to incorporate five in our entries).

My Mortal

By: Picky Princess

                  The palace of Asgard is a shining metropolis that seems to be formed of molten gold and the opalescence from a soap bubble, frozen in an instant in time. It is enough to turn the head of any slave, but you gaze with greater awe than most. The palace is an impossible sight to a Midgardian girl. Your keeper grumbles self-importantly of his discovery of you and how you will bring him glory before the king of Asgard, but to you it is merely background noise as your eyes absorb every tantalizing sight while the two of you are led into the concert hall where you will perform in five days’ time.

                  This, unlike all the rest of Asgard, is familiar to you. It has much in common with concert halls in Midgard; there are seats for the audience, a stage, and that comforting cocoon that only good acoustics can provide. It is so familiar that you feel a pang of homesickness. Your boorish keeper doesn’t notice and merely forces you into practice as soon as your guides are gone. For him, you are merely a thing that makes music and garners him the attention of others, the same way the newest iPod model might at home.

                  But as you warm up with scales and then fall into song, something about this place makes you feel more aware, more alive, and your skin flushes as warm hyperawareness tingles across your body. It lends richness to your singing over the days, until even your ever-dissatisfied keeper seems to be pleased.

                  “For once in your life you might be worth something to me,” he says as he dismisses you from the hall.

                  With a sigh of relief, just being around his condescension is grueling to you; you slip into the retiring chamber off the concert hall that you have been using to rest between practice sessions. A small but richly appointed room with bookshelves of music scores, a fainting couch, a full-length mirror to observe stance and costume, and one wall of just windows that overlook the city sprawled out far below and, beyond that, the sea, it has been your escape for the past five days.

                  But now it is different. As the door falls shut behind you with a soft click of the latch, you swallow a gasp. Where once there was empty space on the hardwood floor, there is now a baby grand piano of burnished wood like you haven’t seen since your abduction from Midgard six years ago at the young age of sixteen. It is mesmerizing, a thrilling piece of Midgard, no...of _Earth_. You are helpless not to go to it and take a seat on that sun-warmed piano bench, your fingers going to the ivory keys.

                  You are not some virtuoso, your forte is singing, but you know a couple of songs by heart, and your lips curl into a warm smile as you coax your fingers to remember those evocative notes.

                  “I am impressed.”

                  The piano’s discordant jangle ends your music as you freeze in place. You hadn’t realized there was someone else here. Now that he has spoken, you realize that the warm, tingling awareness that you’d become so accustomed to over the past few days has come to envelop you in a gentle embrace. You hadn’t noticed. You have become so inured to the feeling, and that scares you almost as much as turning around might. Drawing your fingers away from the piano keys, hands clenching into nervous fists, you rise and do it anyway.

                  The sight of him confirms what you suspected from the moment you heard his voice. There is no reason to ask his name, you know exactly who this is: the king’s son, a prince of Asgard, Loki.

                  The man standing mere paces away is tall and angular, a study in contrasts. Though his hair is dark as obsidian, he is paler than most Asgardians, his eyes burning, blue ice. And though he appears slender, there is a strength and power to his stance. He is garbed in green cloth and black leather, in greaves and the functional but elegant pieces of armor that all men of high rank wear to signify their status in this warlike society.  It contrasts sharply with the ivory gown you were given to wear, and under his gaze the fabric feels paper-thin and insubstantial. His gaze penetrates you and you wonder how the dress hasn’t gone up in flames like it was oil-soaked, flames that scorch you to your very marrow and leave your lungs gasping for oxygen.

                  You gulp in a breath. The prince’s very white teeth flash in a grin. And the last light of the afternoon dies as the sun sinks behind the clouded horizon, throwing the chamber into a half-light reminiscent of dreams.

                  “I didn’t realize you could play this Midgardian instrument as well as sing like the songbird others claimed you were,” he says quietly. Yet the effect of his words is like a physical force, each syllable laden with power and meaning disproportionate to its volume. To you, it is an admission that this being, this Asgardian prince, has been aware of you, perhaps for longer than you can comprehend.

                  “You...know me?” you respond, and flush as his eyes focus on your face. No good slave would have been so direct.

                  His lips curve into another smile, but this time you see truly why they call him the God of Mischief on Midgard. There is a hint of playfulness there, but it is tempered by a keen cunning, a sharpness, a touch of chaos that sets your heart racing. And when he next opens his mouth, he doesn’t answer your question. “Come here.”

                  It doesn’t cross your mind to disobey him.

                  It’s as though your body isn’t your own as you close the gap between you, stopping to stand half an arm’s length away, not bold enough to step closer. At this distance you have to look up to meet his gaze, and that chaos-touched smile deepens as you do so.

                  “How brave of you, mortal girl,” he chuckles, the sound tinted with darkness. “Others would have cowered away from me in fear. So few ever look into my eyes.” His long, elegant fingers caress your cheek, a startlingly cool touch to your warm skin. **“You are so beautiful and delicate,”** he murmurs, almost as though he doesn’t realize he is talking out loud. **“Do you know what I could do to such a fragile beauty? You sweet innocent mortal, you have no idea.”**

                  Your heart thunders inside your chest, loud enough for him to hear, but it is anticipation rather than fear that pumps through your blood, setting your body ablaze. Perhaps you ought to feel terrified in the power of a prince of Asgard, but the gentle stroke of his thumb against your cheek is filled with promise. Promise and desire.

                  He is the one to close the distance between you.

                  “Say you are mine,” he commands. “If only for tonight, say it. Say you are mine.”

                  He is giving you a chance, a tiny, sliver of a chance, to say no. To refuse him. He is giving you, a slave in Asgard, a choice, when he could take what he wanted and leave you no say. If you tell him no now, you are fairly certain he will leave here without another word, never to speak to you again. Never to act on the desires that burn in those frost-blue eyes of his. Never to slide his fingers across your skin as they do now, tempting and teasing. But you have no mind to refuse him.

                  Your heart stutters in your chest but your voice is surprisingly steady, if whisper quiet.

                  “I’m yours.”

                  The next second you are breathless, whirled around in his grasp so that your back is pressed to his front, the both of you facing that full-length mirror. His body is hard and unyielding behind you, sleek muscle and masculinity. The faint tang of cedar and snow, the scent of winter, mingles with the scent of his skin, intimate and close. Blood rushes to your face, but Loki seems not to notice. And as he presses one long-fingered hand to your abdomen, you forget about your flushed features too.

                  His fingers across your cheek were cool, but this hand burns into your flesh like a hot coal. The pose is so intimate, touching you as you haven’t been in years that your nipples pebble under the tissue-paper fabric of your gown your heartbeat echoing between your legs. And through leather and layers of fabric you feel him, burning even hotter than his hands, like an iron brand at the small of your back. He is not unaffected. The knowledge of that sears you and you feel your underwear grow slick and damp.

                  “M-My lord…”

                  **“Sing for me, mortal.”** It is a royal edict. An order he expects to have obeyed. You have agreed to be his this night, and you are learning just what that means. The hand sliding down your belly to cup you at the juncture of your thighs leaves you in no doubt. **“I want to hear your voice tremble as I touch you, and stroke you, and torture you relentlessly. And if your voice falters, if you miss a single note, I will stop,”** he tells you, his long fingers finding the bud between your legs, making it hard to pay attention to his words, **“And we will both start again from the very,”** tap, **“first,”** tap, **“note.”**

                  The last tap against your aching clit has you weak at the knees, slick between your thighs. You aren’t certain you can stand on your own, and you must have soaked through the fabric of both your underwear and the dress. As if reading your mind, Loki’s other hand slides down from its place around your waist and begins to bunch up the dress, the hem rising higher and higher with each deft gesture. You watch as it rises up your calves, past your knees, to your thighs, high enough so that Loki can slide his hand under the fabric. Two fingers press against you again, this time through a single, silken layer.

                  You hear the soft noise of satisfaction he makes to find you so wet, as well as the amusement in his tone as he whispers, “I suppose we must preserve this dress, my little mortal. Now sing.”

                  You can sing all your concert pieces without thinking now, a good thing because at the first note the prince’s fingers gently begin circling your clit in maddening spirals. It is an assault on your senses; terrible in how accurately he knows how to manipulate your body. Under your gown your nipples bud even tighter, sensitive now to the very rasp of the fabric covering them. You arch into his touch, thankful for the arm that is once more wrapped around your waist to keep you standing. But then his free hand snakes up your body, and in a deft move rolls a nipple between his fingers. You gasp with pleasure.

                  Instantly, the stroking of his fingers stop, and you struggle to catch your breath. You hadn’t realized how tightly he’s wound you up until he stopped and let you go. It is all you can do not to sag into his arms.

                  “Again, mortal. From the beginning.”

                  The reward for obedience is immediate. The hand at your breast begins to flick over your nipple in time with your song. The one between your legs slides up and down that little nub, each stroke a fierce wave of pleasure that makes your legs tremble with the effort of staying upright. When he stops, you swallow a soft moan of loss, but then those talented fingers snake under your panties, and his flesh meets yours. Whether from that heated contact, or the soft hiss of breath that is Loki’s only sound of pleasure, your breath hitches and the song stops.

                  So do his fingers.

                  Without needing prompting, you start again from the beginning, desperate to feel his fingers stroking your need. His low, sensuous laugh, rich with approval, only makes the pleasure more intense as his long digits slide through the slickness that has already dampened your thighs. For sweet moments he rolls your clit between his fingers, the sensations enough that his grip tightens around your body so that you don’t fall. But then his questing fingers delve lower, to where you feel empty and needing, and your breath almost stops. Your song turns soft and breathless, each note an effort, but Loki doesn’t seem to notice as a finger gently circles and circles and drives you to madness.

                  “Look at yourself, mortal. Wanton with desire that I created. Look.”

                  You force yourself to focus your attention on the mirror across from you, and the song almost stops there. You do look wanton, with your gown ruched up to your hips, legs spread, hips subtly rocking to meet the strokes of Loki’s fingers. They are fairly visible through the fabric of your panties; pale silk made translucent by your own fluids, and watching them move as you feel the bone-melting pleasure vibrate through you is incredibly erotic. But as your gaze rises higher and meets his, it is the stark hunger and fierce need that gleams in his eyes that makes you arch your back and give a soft cry.

                  “Enough,” he tells you, keeping you from starting your songs anew. His lips graze your temple, making you shudder. The control he has over you should be frightening, or at least more frightening than it is. But the aching of your womanhood is so intense that it blots out most other feelings. Loki’s fingers have not stopped their sensual dance against your slick flesh, and instead of music the air fills with your soft pants and moans and the puffs of his breath against your cheek.

Slow and erotic at first, he picks up the pace until you are arching in his arms, eyes closed with abandon and lips parted for a constant stream of desperate cries. At some point you think he directed you to raise your arms and lean back so that he is supporting you, your body completely open to him, his fingers slipping under the bodice of your gown to tease your taut nipples. All you can feel is the maddening, alternating strokes against your clit and the place that begs to be filled. And just when you feel the shuddery trembling of intense pleasure start to tingle up your spine, your body tensing, Loki’s fingers penetrate you with a demanding, fierce thrust.

                  With a scream of release, you shatter in his arms as pleasure burns through you, his fingers thrusting in and out to prolong your ecstasy as your inner muscles clench around them. Your back bows and your body undulates with the rhythm of his deep strokes, and the pleasured groan that shudders in your ear makes each wave of your climax more powerful than you could have thought possible. He only stops when you are boneless in his arms.

                  “My mortal,” he says, a proud, proprietary note in his tone. “I find myself enjoying how you look as you come undone.” You don’t doubt his words. The evidence of his satisfaction presses into your back, a shallow thrust that somehow has your body pulsing, throbbing, for more.

                  He notices. This man is more in tune to your desires than anyone you have encountered. “My mortal,” he says again, obviously pleased by your body’s reaction. “The things that ran through my thoughts as I watched you. As I pleasured you. Would you like to hear them?” It is phrased as an offer, but you know somehow that he would have told you regardless of your answer. You nod anyway, curious and anticipatory.

                  “I want to taste these,” he murmurs into the shell of your ear, thumbing a nipple as your breath begins to quicken once more. “To lick this elegant neck of yours.” His touch retreats from your breast to the nape of your neck. As he undoes the laces of your dress there, his lips brush against your skin in a feather-light touch. The wet glide of his tongue is another layer of sensation that addles your mind. “I want to have your lips wrapped around me, with you eager to please.” The image is burned into your thoughts; if he will let you tonight, you will do this. **“I want to pull your thighs apart and press my tongue against you. I want to taste the wetness between your legs.”** Fingers gently drum against sensitive flesh and you shudder at his touch. With a soft rustle, your dress comes undone at last and the fabric slides down your body.

                  His quiet hiss of appreciation makes you blush, but you make no move to cover yourself, knowing that he wants to see you like this. This, too, arouses you. Everything that he does has this effect on you, it seems. A maddening fact.

                  “Step out of that dress, it will keep for now,” he orders, drawing you away from the mirror, from your gown. You follow his lead, your bare feet crossing the floorboards after him as he draws you deeper into the shadows. “I want to keep you in my bed for all the hours of the night,” Loki’s voice rumbles as you traverse the room together, “until you have no voice from crying out your pleasure.”

                  He shakes his head with feigned sadness, that gleam of mischief back again in his eyes. His hands reach for you and one teases the hem of your panties, the last garment you have on. “Because of tonight’s concert, there are a few time constraints that keep me from fulfilling all the fantasies I have for you. But after,” and his eyes are dark with promise, “After, I would keep you with me until we are both sated. It will take me days at the very least, perhaps weeks.”

                  And with no more warning than a sudden tenseness in his shoulders, he fists his hand in your underwear and gives you a push, ripping the flimsy silk from your body as you land on the couch.

                  You gasp in shock; naked, disoriented, and startled by his admission. This prince of Asgard wants you for more than just now, for more than just this night. “Why? Why me?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

                  “You are so innocent, little mortal,” he tells you as he sheds his coat and carelessly tosses it over one of the couch arms. “Innocent, and yet unconsciously sensuous. I have wanted to show you pleasure for a while now. **You are unaware of myself watching you, studying you. But tonight you will see how attentive I can be.”**

                  He strips off his clothes then, efficient and practical. But you are rapt as you watch his body appear. It is a couple of shades paler than his face, and as you imagined from having him pressed to your back. His muscles are defined but not obtrusive, his body toned and sleek, putting you in mind of a Midgardian panther. But then he divests himself of his pants, and rational thought leaves your head.

                  Color rises to your cheeks until your head feels hot, fogged with desire, for his manhood juts out from his body, hard and proud and filling you with need. You aren’t even conscious of reaching out until your hand wraps around it. Guided by instinct, you stroke up and down the shaft as Loki freezes. With each slow slide of your hand you tighten your grip a little, spreading the slick fluid that beads at the tip of cock. The tension in his body is startling, filling you with a sense of control and power that you haven’t had in years. A grin of pleasure tugs at your lips, and without warning you lean forward and wrap your lips around the head in a hot, wet embrace.

                  “Minx,” Loki growls, his voice rough with pleasure. “If we had but time-,” but he cuts himself off as he jerks himself out of your grasp. You watch as he regains control. “Later, my lovely mortal,” he promises, voice smooth once more. You find yourself missing the throaty abandon of earlier. There is a leashed quality to his tone now, and as he has made you unravel at the seams, so you wish the same for him. But his very presence dominates you, and you do not reach for his manhood again as you so desire. You admire with your gaze instead, as he does the same to you.

                  Yet suddenly a frown creases his brow. As confusion and uncertainty ripples through you, he reaches for his coat and pulls it on, the long, sleeveless garment falling down to mid-calf. Before the fear that you are unwanted can take a strong hold, he returns to you and rises above you, the leather a curtain between the two of you and the rest of the world.

                  “The door to this room has no lock, I fear, and should anyone come I will not let them see your body like this,” he tells you, unyielding iron in his voice. “This body, this luscious, fragile form, is for my eyes alone. You are mine to possess. No other will see your beauty as I have now.”

                  And then his lips slant down on yours with a fierceness that takes your breath away, his body everywhere as he presses you into the soft cushions of the couch. A hand slides down your throat to your breasts, raising goose-bumps across your skin as his tongue delves past your lips and strokes your own with sensuous skill. The thrusting of it in and out of your mouth sets your body throbbing as you imagine his cock doing the same to your core. You undulate your hips in a mute plea, earning yourself a chuckle against your lips before he kisses you again with the same masterfulness as before.

                  When he releases your lips at last, they feel tender and deliciously bruised by his assault. But his merely migrate down the column of your throat, across collarbones made sensitive by the pleasure he instills in you, to your breasts. His hands grip your sides, arching your pliant body so that your breasts are proudly displayed for his eyes as your head rests back on the couch cushions.

                  “You look like a feast, my sweet mortal,” Loki murmurs against your warm skin, making a blush rise to your face. “One I plan on enjoying.” His lips close around a nipple. Your pleasure peaks as his tongue swirls around the pebbled nub, but only for a second before he pulls back. Cold dances across your skin as he blows against the damp, making you shudder, and then moan with frustrated desire as his lips begin to nip their way across the fullness of one breast and to the other. He alternates between them as your fingers find their way to his hair and thread through the inky strands, the word, “Please,” finding its way to your lips. But no matter how you try to guide him, he doesn’t deviate from whatever path he pleases, driving you crazy with wanting.

                  When you feel that you can’t take this teasing any longer, your breasts peppered with kisses and nibbles, he slides his cock tantalizingly against your slick folds and you cry out with sheer need.

                  “P-Please, my lord,” you beg, unashamed by your words in the intensity of your desire. “Please…,”

                  “Loki,” he interrupts you, his face sharp with the hunger you remember from when he watched you through the mirror. “Say it, little mortal. Say my name.”

                  “Please...Loki,” you whisper.

                  His manhood slides through your folds again, the glide even smoother as he coats himself with your fluids. You groan in unison at the sizzling pleasure of it, sparking flames that burn from your core to your extremities until you feel as though you would die without him inside you. His hands spread your thighs, exposing your heat to the cool air of the music chamber, his fingers stroking against your skin as you shudder in his grip. The head of his cock presses gently against you for a perfect moment, eliciting a soft cry, but he slides it up your folds to your clit instead of penetrating you.

                  “Loki, please,” you moan as your hands slide under his coat to find skin. “Please!” Your nails dig into the backs of his shoulders.

                  With a curse, Loki slams his cock into you with a single, hard thrust.

                  You cling to him to find purchase as your insides clench around his intrusion. You feel so stretched and full, open and exposed. It melts you from the inside out, your body trembling as a mini-orgasm rocks through your core. If Loki had moved even a little, you’re certain you would have spiraled into the most intense climax you’ve ever experienced. But he stays completely still after entering you, riding out the waves with his muscles clenched like cords of steel, gripped in the control of his iron will. You are still incredibly aroused when your small high abates, and his eyes gaze into yours with a fierce enjoyment.

                  “You are exquisite, my mortal,” he says, ice-eyes burning. “Exquisite, and mine.”

                  His control seems to waver, grows brittle, and snaps. He pulls from you with a liquid movement, and slams back inside. This is sex as you have never known it, his powerful thrusts giving you pleasure so intense that you feel your soul might shatter inside you. His hands find your hips and angle them just a little.

                  The scream of pleasure is ripped from you as his shaft finds that perfect angle, making everything else but that searing bliss fade. He enters you again and again, his face a fierce mask of lust and need and possession. The very depth of his feelings makes your insides quiver and ratchets your pleasure higher.

                  “Loki!” you cry as a hard thrust nearly makes you orgasm. You are so close. You should have already climaxed by now, the heights of ecstasy you’ve reached beyond your imagining. The raw desire in your voice seems to spur him on, his breaths ragged with pleasure.

                  **“Tell me that you belong to me,”** he demands, eyes blazing with a need so strong it’s painful. **“Tell me that no one makes your toes curl the way they do when I thrust inside of you. Tell me how no one has made you feel this way...only me.”**

                  “N-No one!” you pant as your hips try to keep up with his. “No one has p-pleasured me like this!”

                  “And who do you belong to?” Loki growls, his voice rough with lust. “Say it!”

                  You feel your insides clench tight around his shaft, the ecstasy finally too much for your body to handle. “You! I belong to you!” you scream, forcing the words out before they are swallowed up by blinding waves of searing heat as you orgasm.

It’s so powerful, so pleasurable, so beyond anything else in your experience that you know you must have died from the pleasure and yet you would do it again in a heartbeat. Everything inside you melts as your being becomes that sweet friction of his cock thrusting in time with the pulses of pleasure, making the sensation last for an eternity as you scream his name and feel the hot rush of his own climax like another thrust inside you. His harsh groan of pleasure as he whispers your name brings a last, delicious shudder as you slide down from that stratospheric peak, bathing you in a rosy, warm relaxation as he wraps his body around you and somehow fits you both onto the couch.

                  It is long moments before either of you feels like moving, the boneless feeling dragging you down into a soporific state. Only when his fingers brush against your sweat-dampened cheek do your eyes flutter open.

                  “You must be getting ready, little one,” he says, and with true reluctance he pulls away, delving into a pocket for a handkerchief which he hands you. You clean up as he dresses, finding another kind of intimacy in the way he helps you into your concert gown again.

                  Fully clothed once more, your gazes lock, and he does not look away.

                  “I find I am fascinated by your charms,” Loki remarks, his expression full of something, tenderness or possession, maybe both. “Fascinated by you.” He closes the gap between you but doesn’t touch, another torture tactic that you’re beginning to think you’ll become very familiar with. “I said that it might take days, even weeks for me to be sated,” he tells you as he leans down to murmur the words in your ear. “I was wrong, my mortal. _I might never be sated._ ”

                  And then he is out and gone, into the lamplit concert hall that will soon fill with an audience to hear you sing. Somehow, you know that you will outdo yourself on that stage tonight, and before the night is over everyone in the palace will know you are his. His as irrevocably as he has made you in this music room. His and none other’s. His mortal.

END 


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